


You Drool When You Sleep

by mortalogy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, Healing, Kanimas, M/M, Magic, Potions, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Sterek Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalogy/pseuds/mortalogy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically rewrote ‘Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief’ Chapter 5 “I Play Pinochle With a Horse” while replacing the characters with Teen Wolf characters, and some other minor changes.</p><p>Instead, he said, “You drool when you sleep.” Then he sprinted off down the road, his black hair shining in the sunlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Drool When You Sleep

I had weird dreams full of barnyard animals. Most of them wanted to kill me. The rest wanted food.

I must’ve woken up several times, but what I heard and saw made no sense, so I just passed out again. I remember lying on a hard metal table, being spoon-fed something that tasted like it was pudding. The man with straight black hair hovered over me, smirking as he scraped drips off my chin with the spoon.

When he saw my eyes open, he asked, “What will happen on the full moon?”

I managed to croak, “What?”

He looked around, as if afraid someone would overhear. “What’s going on? What was stolen? We’ve only got a few weeks!”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “I don’t…”

Somebody knocked on the door, and the older man quickly filled my mouth with pudding.

The next time I woke up, the man was gone.

A muscular dude with black hair, and a white shirt, stood in the corner of the doctor-like room keeping watch over me. He had shiny blue eyes that glowed, and it showed the really bad sideburns on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

When I finally came around for good, there was something weird about my surroundings. I was sitting in one of those chairs you sit in a waiting room at the hospital.  The place smelled like animals, like dogs and cats. There was a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All that was great, but my mouth felt like a scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue was dry and nasty and every one of my teeth hurt.

On the table next to me was a tall drink. I picked up the glass and looked at it. What was inside looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol.

My hand was so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it.

“Careful,” a familiar voice said.

Scott was leaning against the wall railing, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled a show box. He was wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops and a bright orange T-shirt that said “Beacon Hills Animal Clinic.” Just plain old Scott. Not the wolf boy.

So maybe I’d had a nightmare. Maybe my dad was okay. We were still on vacation, and we’d stopped here at this big building for some reason. And…

“You saved my life,” Scott said. “I… well, the least I could do... I went back to the driveway. I thought you might want this.”

Reverently, he placed the shoe box in my lap.

Inside was a black-and-white lizard’s claw, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with black blood. It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“The kanima,” I said. “That’s what they call him in the Guyana myths, isn’t it?” I demanded. “The kaniama. Half man, half lizard.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “You’ve been out for two days. How much do you remember?”

“My dad. Is he really…”

He looked down.

I stared across the bleak waiting room. As I stood up and looked out the clinic door, there were plants, a coal black driveway, acres of trees spread out under the blue sky. The clinic was surrounded by other buildings and cars. At the front of the driveway, was a new-looking, sleek, black, Camaro. Even that shined in the sunlight.

My mom was dead, and now my dad was gone. The world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Scott sniffled. “I’m a failure. I’m-I’m the worst werewolf in the world.”

He moaned, raking his nails across the wood table so hard, that it left claw marks. I could see his extended claws out of his ordinary nails.

“Oh shit!” he mumbled.

It started raining from the clear sky.

As he struggled to get his claws back into his hand, I thought, Well, that settles it.

Scott was a werewolf. I was ready to bet that if I got him angry enough, I’d see the horrible side burns I saw the man in the corner had. But I was too miserable to care that werewolves existed, or even kanimas. All that meant was my dad really had been brushed apart into nothingness, dissolved into yellow dust.

I was alone. An orphan. I would have to live with Scott’s mom. I didn’t want to be a bother to them, even if she was practically my mother. I’d do something.

Scott was still sniffling. The poor kid-poor wolf, werewolf, whatever-looked as if he expected to be hit.

I said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was.  I was supposed to protect you.”

“Did my father ask you to protect me?”

“No. But that’s my job. I’m supposed to look after you.”

“But why…” I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Scott said. “Here.”

He helped me hold the glass and put the straw to my lips.

I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn't that at all. It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies-my mom’s homemade red velvet white chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn’t go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay.

Before I knew it, I’d drained the glass I stared into it, sure I’d just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn’t even melted.

“Was it good?” Scott asked.

I nodded.

“What did it taste like?” He sounded so wistful, I felt guilty.

“Sorry,” I said. “ I should've let you taste.”

His eyes got wide. “No! That’s not what I meant. I just… wondered.”

“Chocolate-chip cookies,” I said. “My mom’s. Homemade.”

He sighed. “And how do you feel?”

“Like I could throw Jackson Whittemore a hundred yards.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s good. I don’t then you could risk drinking any more of that stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

He took the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it were dynamite, and set it back on the table. “Come on. Peter and Doctor D. are waiting.”

  


* * *

 

 

 

It stopped raining, so we went outside.

The porch wrapped all the way around the clinic.

My legs felt wobbly, trying to walk that far. Scott offered to carry the kanima claw, but I held on to it. I’d paid for that souvenir the hard way. I wasn't going to let it go.

As we came around the opposite end of the building, I caught my breath.

We must’ve been on the north side of Beacon Hills, because on this end of the clinic, the street marched all the way up to the forest, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like they were run down-a roofless storage house, another warehouse, and a loft. In the loft, I could see Isaac, Erica, and Boyd from school, laughing as they fought each other, all with horrible side burns and no eyebrows. Isaac sat in the corner, fiddling with his scarf. I could see their fangs glisten with sweat, and their claws with stained blood.

Down at the back entrance of the clinic, two men sat across from each other at a card table inside. The black-haired boy who’d spoon-fed me pudding was leaning on the table next to them. The man facing me was tall and muscular. He had black hair that spiked like mine. He wore a white v-neck shirt that exposed his muscular chest, and he would’ve fit right in with the man at one of dad’s jail cells, except I got the feeling this guy could’ve escaped any jail cell.

“That’s Peter Hale,” Scott murmured to me. “He’s Derek’s uncle. Be polite. The muscular boy, that’s Derek Hale. He’s Peter’s nephew, but he’s been through some pretty bad times. And you already know Doctor D."

He pointed at the guy whose back was to me.

First I realized he was wearing a lab-coat. Then I recognized the bald head, the dark skin, and the wispy beard.

“Doctor Deaton!” I cried.

The medical examiner turned and smiled at me. His eyes had that mischievous glint he sometimes got when he let you get away with something you did wrong.

“Ah, good, Stiles,” he said. “Now we have four for pinochle.”

He offered me a chair to the right of Peter, who looked at me with glowing blue eyes and heaved a great sigh. “Oh, I supposed I must say it. Welcome to the supernatural. There. Now, don’t expect me to be glad to see you.”

“Uh, thanks.” I scooted a little farther away from him because, if there was one thing I had learned from being at the station, it was how to tell when an adult had been hitting the happy juice. If Peter Hale was a stranger to alcohol, I was a werewolf.

“Derek?” Dr. Deaton called to the tall boy.

He came forward and Deaton introduced us. “This young man nursed you back to health, Stiles. Derek, why don't you go check on your betas?”

Derek said, “Sure Deaton.”

He was probably around twenty two years old, maybe an inch taller, and a whole lot more muscled. With his deep tan and his muscular body, he was almost exactly what I thought a stereotypical California man would look like, except his eyes magnified the image. They were a startling mix of green, brown, and blue; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if he was analyzing the best way to rip my throat out, with his teeth.

He glanced at the long claw in my hand, then back at me. I imagined he was going to make fun of me, _How did a scrawny boy like you kill a monster?_ or _He got lucky!_ or something like that.

Instead he said, “You drool when you sleep.”

  
Then he sprinted off the road, his black hair shining in the sunlight.


End file.
